War of Gods, page 7
part #3 of Paternus Series
“At one point in their time together, they had an idea. To pass the time, and see if it could be done, as much as anything, Yggdrasil extended its great roots throughout the earth and began pulling all the land of the world together. It took quite some time, of course, but Yggdrasil succeeded in creating one great continent where all the family of The Father could live together, The World Tree at its center, and Father was pleased.”
“Pangaea,” says Fi. “According to scientists, it really existed. All the land of the world in one continent. They call it Pangaea.”
“And Yggdrasil made it. The Prathamaja Nandana was born there, you know.”
“But then it broke up due to volcanic and other geological activity.” Fi sees the look on Freyja’s face. “Supposedly...”
“One fateful day,” says Freyja, “while Father and Pratha experimented with the development of written language, both of them sensed a great change in the world. When they looked up, Yggdrasil was gone.
“The world had experienced a split, you see. A doubling. No one knows why. The majority of Firstborn nearly always stay on the original earth when splits happen. Sometimes all of them. But that time, Yggdrasil had gone to the duplicate world. This one. On our world, Pangaea began to break up, its pieces drifting to where they exist today. The Tree lamented the loss of its family, but there was life here as well. It continued holding the continent together, packing the land even tighter, and making itself a fine view of the sea. Meanwhile, Father slipped from world to world, searching, and Pratha went with him. Eventually they found this world, which later came to be known as Asgard.”
Fi shakes her head, feeling tiny and feeble in the presence of Yggdrasil. It truly is The World Tree. And now it’s dying.
“Father tried taking The Tree back himself, to no avail. He gathered as many Firstborn who could slip as possible, though there were never many. Again, nothing. Much later, they tried ringing it entirely, hugging it tight, placing those who could slip among them, with Munin and Hugin as well. Ganesh has also tried. It simply can’t be done. The Tree is too large, its roots too deep.”
Sorrow fills Fi’s heart. “So it’s just going to die here? All alone?”
Freyja gazes at the dirty toes of her slippers. Her voice is soft and trembling. “And soon.”
Fi only met The Tree today. Minutes ago, in fact. A few days ago she wouldn’t have believed it existed. Now, it’s as if everyone, in all the worlds, is losing something very, very significant. The Deva are losing something, someone, they all love dearly. The only being other than Peter they’ve all known, all their lives. She watches Freyja absent-mindedly fingering the round pink stone at the top of her white lacquered cane. Her hunch seems more exaggerated, her tiny frame more frail than ever. If Fi is sad about The Tree, she can’t imagine what Freyja is going through. And Peter, and all the others when they find out. Maybe as badly as she feels about losing Edgar. Worse, if that’s possible. Fi feels for the urn that holds Edgar’s ashes, yearning for the coolness of its touch, the roughness of its glaze, but remembers she left it with Peter.
She puts a hand on Freyja’s arm, which feels odd to do, but important. “I’m so sorry.”
Freyja sniffs and rubs her eyes with a tiny hand. She places her hand, wet with tears, on Fi’s. “It’s all right, dear. We’ve all lost thousands over the ages. Friends and family, every one.” She heaves a sigh. “Just not Yggdrasil.” She hops to the ground, says, “Not The Tree,” and shuffles away, looking further lessened by her words.
Fi catches up to her. “It hurts so much, losing someone you love. Too much.”
“Even if the ancients don’t think like humans, we feel as they do.”
“It seems like the grief will last forever.”
“It will.”
Fi shoots her a look of despair.
“But sorrow changes with the passing of time,” Freyja continues. “Becomes less sharp, less immediate, less overwhelming. From agony to an ache, though that ache never entirely goes away.”
“I don’t know if I can do it. I mean, how do you do it? You... we... live so long. Will I live that long?”
“Maybe, maybe not. A long time, I would imagine. If we survive this war and the yuga’s ending, that is. That’s the thing, though, isn’t it? None of us know when the end will come, not really. A snap of the fingers and it could all be over – and the reasons, the causes, are uncountable. Most of us are already dead, as you know. I was there with many of them when they passed. They say the same thing, at the end, just like the watoto. Even those who lived millions of years. ‘It all went by so fast.’”
Beyond another ridge of root they find the ogres’ camp. Pots hanging over smoldering fires. Squat structures made from branches, draped in Yggdrasil’s fallen leaves. Laundry drying, bones and supplies scattered about. It looks like they took nothing, just hauled ass as soon as they saw Peter.
“What were they doing here?” Fi asks. “Do they live here?”
“As Yggdrasil said, Kleron brought them,” says Freyja, having regained much of her matronly brusqueness. “From the glint of some of their blades, I’d say they’re close to Astra quality. I’d imagine the ogres were left to keep an eye on the petit gods.”
Fi had almost forgotten about the petit gods – one of the reasons they came to Asgard in the first place. “Where are they? The petit gods, I mean.”
“Hidden by The Tree, would be my guess. Father will find them.”
Fi is about to ask more, but Munin swoops at Freyja and hugs her around the neck.
“Now you say a proper hello to Freyja,” the old woman scolds, then pats him on the back and strokes his feathers. “It’s good to see you too, Little Brother.” He continues to embrace her. “You could have come to visit any time, you know.” He leans back, clinging to her collar, tilts his head sadly, and slips away – only to reappear on Fi’s shoulder.
She squeaks and jumps. Munin caws and flaps his wings but hangs on until she settles down. She pushes a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear and cranes her neck, pushing out her shoulder to see him better. “Hi.”
Munin’s soft brown eyes examine her face, which makes her even more nervous. He takes her ponytail in his little hands and examines it, feeling its softness, going so far as sniffing it, then tasting a strand with a pointed pink tongue stuck between sharp monkey teeth.
“Um... what are you doing?” Munin watches her, then tugs on her ponytail and flies off. “Oh, you little...” she exclaims, running a hand over her hair.
“Consider yourself lucky,” says Freyja.
“What?”
“He likes you.”
“He has a funny way of showing it.”
“He isn’t fond of many, and rarely so soon after meeting. He has only ever spoken to Father, you know. They were inseparable for quite some time. Well, Munin, Father, and Munin’s brother, Hugin.” She tips her cane in Fi’s direction. “You were obviously an only child. No brothers and sisters to harass you.”
“I... yeah.”
“You could have far worse brothers than Munin, The Raven. You do, in fact, as you well know by now. But he is your brother. One of the good ones. One of the best. And now you have sisters too.” She leans on her cane. “You will never be an only child again. Better get used to it.”
Fi is overcome by an unfamiliar warmth that fills her heart unlike anything she’s ever felt. Not with Edgar, really. Maybe not even when her mother was alive. A sense of real belonging. A sense of family. Her throat tightens and her eyes grow moist. Munin caws from a fallen branch ahead and flies off.
They round The Tree further and a massive building comes into view. Built of white stone, it looks like a mausoleum with grand columns and relief carvings of women and men in winged helmets, but it also reminds Fi of Greek and Roman temples she’s seen pictures of. Only a whole lot bigger. Munin perches high on the peaked pediment.
“That, Fiona, is the great hall of Valhalla,” says Freyja. “All that is left of Asgardian civilization.” She leads the way. Ruins indicate there may once have been grand gardens, possibly fountains, now reduced to buried formations of stone. A gigantic gate hangs twisted and tarnished between cracked plinths.
“And this is Valgrind, ‘Death’s Gate,’” says Freyja. “Or at least, it was.”
“What happened here?” Fi asks.
Freyja’s voice is a growl. “Loki betrayed us.”
“Him, I’ve heard of. A little. From movies and TV, mostly.”
Freyja speaks with bile on her tongue as they make their way to the grand steps of the building. “He was with us here since the beginning. Found starving in the frozen wastes of our world during the First Holocaust, Father took pity on him and brought him with the first people to be given shelter on Asgard. But he was not one of us. He was a child of Kleron.”
“A vampire?”
“Loki was ever the troublemaker, but he hated his father and was loyal to our cause. Or so we believed, for thousands of years. It was he who poisoned Hugin’s mind, who loosed the fell hordes of his daughter, Hel, to lay waste to Asgard while the Aesir fought for the very existence of humankind on Midgard. Valhalla is all that is left. Built by Asterion, protected by the Firstborn daughters’ magic, not even Jörmungand could bring it down, and only we Vanir had the power to open its doors.”
In the face of Freyja’s bitter anger, Fi remains silent. Munin flies down to alight on one of the steps.
“Once Asgard had fallen and its people slaughtered, The Tree helpless to aid them, Hugin slipped the despicable force to join the great battle and fight on Loki’s father’s side. The land here was left poisoned by darkest magic and Jörmungand’s venom. Only two of the population survived: Embla and Ask, a girl and a boy, hiding in the trees of the forest. We took them to what is today called Norway. They beget a clan which spread far and wide. It was some of their descendants you met when you first arrived in New Vanaheim.”
Fi ponders such incredible lineage, begun so long ago.
“Asgard was abandoned. Yggdrasil was left alone. We should have come back. Some of us should have come back.”
“At least it had Munin.”
“Yes it did. And for that I will always be grateful.” Munin acknowledges her thanks with a sad nod. Freyja sighs. “But all is as it is, and perhaps should be. Now, we must look to the future, bleak and full of terrors as it might be.”
The steps are taller than Fi is accustomed to. She has to lift her knees high to walk up them. Freyja has to jump or climb up each.
Fi reaches for Freyja’s arm to help her. “Can I—”
“What do you think you’re doing?” Freyja snaps, jerking her arm away.
“I was just—”
“Pah!” Freyja spits. “Do you know who I am?”
“Um, I think so.” Fi backs away. “Though not really, I guess.”
“Well you’ll find out soon enough.” Freyja scowls as she tops the last step – but no sooner are the words out of her mouth than she tips back, arms pinwheeling.
More swiftly than she thought she could move, Fi is there, catching the old woman with one arm and lifting her to safety. “Oh! Are you all...” She stops, eyes narrowed. “You did that on purpose.”
“No I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.”
“I certainly did not.” Freyja pulls away and proceeds between the columns toward the enormous gilded doors. Fi catches the hint of a sly smile as she goes.
Freyja raises her cane and chants. The doors swing open without a sound. Light of day floods the cavernous hall.
Inside, Freyja speaks more words and torches light. It is indeed a mausoleum. Crypts line the walls floor to ceiling, though the back wall can barely be seen in the distance. There are rows of entombment vaults stacked one upon the other as well. The crypts are of various sizes. And some of them are huge.
Freyja leads Fi past a small altar and down the center aisle, the tapping of her cane echoing in the stillness. “Here lie the Einherjar, the fallen heroes of Asgard. Their bodies were gathered throughout the Second Holocaust by the Valkyries.” The face of each vault is engraved with runes. Fi can read them, but she recognizes only two of the names. Thor and Heimdall. “These are veteran Aesir all, laid to rest in warrior’s repose. Entombed in their armor, grasping their weapons, shields laid upon them. Waiting to rise and fight for glory once more. So the stories say.”
Fi scans the thousands of crypts, thinking about the Asura that have been brought back from the dead. “Could they? Rise again, I mean.”
Freyja’s expression becomes stern. “No. The Aesir believed in that nonsense, but none of the rest of us did. I don’t know where they got the idea. It makes a nice story, I suppose, and gave them hope. Hope for greater exaltation, even after death.” She’s quiet for a moment, an expression Fi can’t quite read on her features. “No,” she says emphatically, “there will be no rising of the Einherjar. Valhalla is just a tomb to honor the dead.”
Freyja walks away, but Fi’s unable to shake the feeling there’s something the old woman is not telling her.
They come to an area of elaborately carved and gilded crypts. “My real purpose in bringing you here was to show you this. These are the Valkyries who died fighting for their kin and the survival of humankind. Each took a thousand lives of the enemy with them before they fell. Some many more.
“It was the onus of the Valkyries who lived through a battle to gather the fallen and honor them properly, whether it be through internment or release by fire.” She turns to Fi. “I tell you this, Fiona Megan Patterson, so you are fully aware of the Valkyries’ legacy, and the burden you shall bear should you become one of them.”
Footsteps sound behind them. It’s Peter, with Munin on his shoulder and Edgar’s urn under one arm. With the light of the doorway behind him, he appears taller, broader of shoulder, armored in copper, his hair long and wild. A great beard bristles over his chest and he has a patch on one eye. When he comes into the light of the nearest torch, he’s just Peter once more – though “just” is a relative term.
Fi can tell from Freyja’s expression that she saw it too, but is not surprised in the least.
“Yggdrasil is attempting to locate Erset La Tari,” Peter says, “Khagan’s base world. It is also bringing forth the petit gods. The Tree tells me Kleron tried to recruit them, figuring they had no love for me or our cause.”
“And?” Freyja asks.
“They refused.” Peter seems confused, but continues. “When Kleron promised them death, Yggdrasil hid them deep in its roots. It will take a while for it to release them.”
Peter and Freyja ponder the implications of the petit gods refusing Kleron. Then Peter addresses Fi, waving a hand over the hall. “I see you’re getting the complete tour.”
“It’s incredible. I can hardly believe it’s real.”
“It’s real.” He gazes thoughtfully over the crypts. “All too real.”
Fi nods at the urn in Peter’s hands. “Do you think Edgar would have wanted to stay here?”
“Possibly, but he was of another time and place. I had something else in mind. Let me show you, then you can decide.”
Africa 2
Elemental
Sweat runs in Zeke’s eyes, soaks his shirt, and his legs ache as they come to a ravine where a shallow river flows. Crocodiles scurry to slide into the muddy water from the banks, then their eyes and snouts break the surface. Watching. Waiting.
Pratha strides down the slope to a thin stretch where water ripples over rocks not far beneath the surface. She wades across, the river only coming up to her waist, then reaches the far bank and turns back. “Come on. They won’t bother you.” Her eyes scan the beasts. “Will you?” She clucks and grunts. The crocs drop below the surface or spin with a splash and disappear.
Zeke’s always been freaked out by the thought of something biting hold of him in the water. Pulling him under. Tearing at his skin, breaking his bones as his blood clouds the water, attracting even more toothy biting things, the only relief coming with being drowned. He doesn’t like swimming in the ocean because of it, and only does so when there are a lot of other people around. More choices for critters to choose from, lessening the chance it will be him.
He shivers in spite of the heat. Stop it, moron. It’s not the crocodiles that are scaring you. It’s you. Deep in his own mind he hears a laugh. His own voice, yet not his own. Chicken, Bad Zeke says. It’s the first time Zeke’s heard him since last night when the Jinn attacked at Freyja’s – and he still doesn’t remember what happened after that. Just coming to with its crushed body burning on the floor of the bedroom. Zeke focuses on Bad Zeke. “Shut up.” The laughing and voice are gone.
He catches Pratha watching him, hands on cocked hip. He calls out, “I’m coming,” and makes his way down the slope. With supreme force of will, he steps into the water. Crocodile eyes break the surface once more, though now farther away. He wants to run but fears baiting them, or worse, slipping and falling in, so he steps slowly, testing each foot’s placement before putting his weight on it. Then halfway across, he slows.
The coolness of the water flows up his body, quenching the heat of the day, refreshing him from his long hike. The aching of his legs recedes and his tiredness dissipates. He feels the water feeling the rocks, the mud, even the surface of the crocodiles themselves. He can tell they’re afraid, and realizes – they’re not only afraid of Pratha, but of him as well. How he knows this, he has no idea. He stares at the water. The sound, the wetness, the very essence of it, every molecule and flow, fill his senses. In a voice only water could have, it softly calls his name—
“Zeke?” He snaps back to his senses at Pratha’s voice. She’s watching him with inquisitive intent. “Do you see a fish, or an eel?”
